


Plausible Denial

by leonidaslion



Series: Suite!verse [7]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, UST, Voyeurism, Wincest - Freeform, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-08
Updated: 2011-04-08
Packaged: 2017-10-17 18:30:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/179913
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonidaslion/pseuds/leonidaslion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Some mistakes you can't take back...</p>
            </blockquote>





	Plausible Denial

**Author's Note:**

> No actual touching between the boys, but Sam is 14 here.
> 
> [Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/9415.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [More Art](http://charlie-d-blue.livejournal.com/13379.html) by charlie-d-blue  
> [Art + Fanmix](http://abendiboo.livejournal.com/13726.html") by abendiboo
> 
> [Vid](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZyyQMBKWG3I) by loverstar  
> [Trailer](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CWxN30zvGw8) by loverstar  
> [Vid 2](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=CJmC3R8PME4&feature=related) by loverstar
> 
> [Audiofic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/category/seriessuiteverse) by juice817

The thing is, Sammy’s supposed to be at the library. He’s _been_ at the library for the past four days running, either working on a school report or just trying to dig up information on something he refuses to ask Dean or Dad about. The little twerp likes to pretend he’s smarter than them, but it isn’t like any of Sammy’s books is gonna teach him anything useful—like how to take out a ghoul with nothing but one of those crappy firestarters that ‘normal’ people take on camping trips.

Anyway, that isn’t the point. The _point_ is that Sammy’s supposed to be at the library, not standing in the doorway of the room they’re sharing, shocked into stillness.

And Dean is supposed to be stopping. He’s supposed to reach over and grab his pillow and chuck it at Sammy’s startled face and tell him to fucking knock, bitch.

But Dean is working three part time jobs in an effort to keep food on the table and a roof over their heads while Dad is off hunting God knows what in Illinois and this is the first quality time he and his dick have had in almost two weeks. And his fingers are all slicked up with some KY and he was thumbing the slit of his cock when Sammy strolled in and he’s having an impulse control problem.

Dean stares down at his fingers as they continue to move independently of his mind and tries to figure out why the fuck Sammy is still standing there and staring at Dean’s cock like he hasn’t ever seen one before—or maybe like he hasn’t ever considered that they could be used for anything except pissing. Dean had been spanking the monkey for years by the time he was Sammy’s age: hell, by the time _he_ was fourteen, he’d already gotten his first handjob and blowjob. Sex itself had to wait another year until Sue Grant let him fuck her in the backseat of the Impala. Someplace in New Mexico that had been, or maybe it was Arizona _(seen one desert, seen ‘em all)_ , and Dean hadn’t even gotten all the way in before he shot that first time, and why the fuck is he even thinking about this when he has more pressing concerns?

Yanking his mind away from Sue’s sweet, brown eyes—from the way she guided his fingers into her, talking him through it step by step—Dean tells himself to stop. He _has_ to stop before this goes any further because, while Dad may have been pushing him to give Sammy the lowdown on sex for the past three months, Dean’s pretty sure that this isn’t what he had in mind.

His hand, however, flips him the metaphorical bird and goes right on working. His heavy silver ring scrapes at the sensitive crown of his cock on an upstroke and his hips buck uncontrollably in response. Sammy’s breath hitches at the movement and, despite the apprehension gnawing at his stomach, Dean almost looks up at him. At his little brother who is standing in the doorway like he’s rooted to the floor and who is showing no signs of leaving.

Dean thinks more seriously about stopping, but he’s too far gone to pull back without giving himself a serious case of blue balls. No way is he putting himself through that kind of hell because Sammy has chosen now to have some sort of puberty-induced meltdown.

The kid has to go.

“S-Sammy,” he pants, trying to communicate the ‘get out, dude’ and ‘haven’t you ever seen a cock before, Samantha?’ that are running around in his mind about as gracefully as two headless chickens.

At the sound of his name, Sammy inches forward. Like Dean extended him an invitation instead of giving him an order to snap the fuck out of it.

Well, shit.

Dean bucks his hips again and his cock slides nice and slick through his fingers. He flashes on Sue’s cunt and then on her soft brown eyes _(damn, the way she_ looked _at him)_ , and lets out a sound that’s halfway between a moan and a whimper. It may only have been two weeks, but somehow he managed to forget how good this feels. He forgot how addictive it is to submit to the demands of his cock: to let pleasure roll through his body and white out the worries about Dad and getting enough cash to cover food and rent and the new clothes that his brother needs so desperately after this most recent growth spurt.

What the hell does it matter if Sammy watches him, anyway?

This is weird, sure, but it isn’t like Dean’s hurting the kid. He isn’t touching Sammy _(or even looking at him, really)_ , and Sammy isn’t touching him _(gonna draw back a bloody stump if he tries it)_ , and he isn’t sure, suddenly, that this is worth the freak out he wants to have. After all, how the hell else is the kid gonna learn how to do this right? It isn’t like there’re a bunch of little Sues _(or Rachels or Jo-Belles or Cindys)_ running around after him to show him how it’s done.

 _I’m just giving him a few pointers,_ Dean tells himself. _It’s no different from teaching him to shoot a rifle._

But the uneasy stir in the pit of his stomach and the creeping sensation on the back of his neck refuse to budge. A thrill of disquiet prods Dean into slipping his eyes shut and turning his face further away. Sammy makes a soft, protesting noise that he ignores. He just—he can’t do this if—it’s _different_ if he looks back, is all. Dean isn’t sure how exactly, or why, but it is.

Even with his eyes closed and his face averted, he can still feel his brother’s eyes on him. Sammy can get a little intense sometimes, and having the entire weight of his brother’s attention arrowed in on him—on what he’s doing—is really fucking distracting. All the gears that were turning so well a few moments ago have begun to gum up. Dean hasn’t stalled out yet, but he isn’t exactly up to running speed anymore either.

 _Come on,_ he urges silently as he firms his strokes. It isn’t enough—not anymore—and he lies back on the mattress so that he can spread his thighs wider and get one heel up on the bed. The position is a little too revealing for comfort, but Dean needs the space to work. Logically, he knows it wouldn’t change the naked, stripped bare feeling he has—he could be jacking off beneath the concealment of a comforter and he’d still feel exposed and on display—but he wishes that he were at least wearing a goddamned t-shirt. Might have provided at least the illusion of modesty.

With his heart fluttering strangely, he pushes his left hand down between his parted thighs and tugs at his balls. The ensuing surge of heat hits him hard and leaves him breathless. _That_ jump-started his engine all right. A second, firmer tug drives Dean to twist his body violently and the sheets bunch into furrowed patterns beneath his back. Another moan threatens to slip out of his throat and he bites down on his bottom lip to stifle it. Sammy’s already getting enough of a show without an accompanying soundtrack.

 _Oh God, stop thinking about him!_ Dean berates himself as his stomach gives an abrupt, sickening flip.

Biting down more firmly on his lip, he fights to return to the fantasy he was indulging in before everything went pear-shaped. But the chick from the garage where he works on weekends _(little Ms. ‘so, what kind of lube job did you have in mind?’ from three weeks ago)_ refuses to rematerialize. Dean’s too aware of his brother’s eyes on his body. He can feel Sam’s attentiveness as an overbearing pressure against his skin.

Okay, fine. Dean’s good at improvising.

He changes the scenario. Now, instead of banging the lube chick on the top of her sweet, cherry-red convertible, Dean pictures himself bracing her up against one of the garage’s rusting metal walls while he slides in. Sue of Arizona _(he’s almost certain it was Arizona)_ is perched on Dave Moss’ desk with her legs spread and her hand up underneath her skirt as she watches Dean perform. When he’s done with lube chick, he’s gonna let Sue suck him hard again and head straight into round two.

Memory blindsides him—Sue clenching around him, unbelievably tight and warm—and Dean comes suddenly and hard. Letting out a hoarse yell, he arches his back and grabs at his thigh with his left hand. His entire body tenses as spurts of come stripe his fingers and stomach. The air goes salty and moist and he can taste himself on every shallow breath.

When Dean’s orgasm finally releases him almost a full minute later, he lies on the bed in a limp haze. His thigh muscles are twitching under his hand and his heart is stuttering alarmingly beneath his ribcage. He doesn’t think he’s ever come that hard before.

Huh. Looks like he’s a bit of an exhibitionist. Well, as far as kinks go, it could be worse.

Finally letting his dick slip from his fingers, Dean swallows thickly and mutters, “Fuck.”

He isn’t expecting a response and the reverent “ _Dean_ ” that he gets startles him back to himself. Between one blink and the next, he remembers that his audience wasn’t a) in his head, or b) a girl, and his stomach immediately contorts into new and interesting shapes.

Oh _fuck_.

With the flush of his afterglow still on his face, Dean struggles into a sitting position. He drops his leg off the bed and grabs the towel lying on the pillow and quickly begins scrubbing his stomach and dick clean. His orgasm-sensitive cock protests the rough handling, but Dean could care less right now. The sooner he’s clean, the sooner he can get dressed, and the sooner he gets dressed, the sooner they can move past this clusterfuck.

 _Don’t look at him,_ a panicked voice babbles in his head. _If you don’t look, it didn’t happen. You’ve got plausible deniability._

“Dean,” Sammy says again, insistent, and Dean looks—of course he fucking looks: he’s hardwired to respond to his brother and that half-demanding, half-pleading tone makes refusal impossible.

Sammy is closer than he thought—close enough that Dean can trace the blush on his brother’s cheeks and note the hint of tongue showing between his parted lips and count every last honey-colored fleck in his eyes—and Dean can’t hide his jump of surprise. Sammy’s eyes darken at the movement, filling with a mixture of hurt and nervousness. Any second now, he’s gonna break for the door and they’ll never have to talk about this again.

But Sammy’s a stubborn little bitch, and instead he licks his lips and says, “Dean, can I—I want to—”

His hand moves forward in something that Dean initially misclassifies as a gesture. It isn’t until Sammy is a fraction of a second away from doing something irrevocable that he realizes that his brother is actually _reaching_. Dean bolts off the bed and sprints to the other side of the room before spinning around, wall to his back and sullied towel held in front of his crotch as a belated shield.

“Woah! Sammy, I—this wasn’t—I’m not. You can’t do that. It’s not … right.” ‘Not right’ doesn’t come close to describing it, actually, but it’s all Dean can come up with. Then, because this is all his fault and Sammy shouldn’t have to feel like a freak because Dean has no self-control, he adds, “I mean, it’s normal for you to. Um. Be curious. But you gotta, y’know, find someone else. Like a girl. Or, uh, if you’re into guys, you could—”

“Who?” Sammy breaks in. “One of my ‘friends’?”

Although Dean is thankful for the interruption, there’s a jaded, bitter quality to Sammy’s voice that he doesn’t care for at all. “I bet there’s tons of kids at school who want to get into your pants,” he says, keeping his tone light in an effort to defuse the tension that is doing its best to press the air from his lungs.

“What if I don’t want them?” Sammy pushes, and although Dean is staring fixedly at the floor he sees his brother take a step closer from the corner of his eye. Fuck, why can’t he just get the message and drop the fucking subject already?

Squaring his shoulders, Dean forces himself to actually look at his brother. Sammy’s face is set in an expression that Dean is all too familiar with: jaw clenched and brow furrowed by a deep ‘I want’ line. His eyes, though … those aren’t familiar at all. There’s too much desire there, shoring up Sammy’s determination and smothering any anxiety the kid might be feeling.

Dean does his best to shove his own anxiety _(and the accompanying nausea and shame)_ aside and focuses on projecting confident aloofness. The smirk on his face feels too stiff and his heart is jackrabbiting in his chest, but it’ll have to do.

“Guess you’re shit out of luck, then,” he says, “Cause it ain’t gonna be me.”

“Why not?” Sammy shoots back immediately.

Letting out a harsh laugh, Dean shifts his grip on the towel so that he can pinch the bridge of his nose with one hand. “Christ on a fucking stick,” he mutters, closing his eyes.

“I’m not a kid, Dean,” Sammy’s voice comes out of the darkness. “I know what I want.”

As if _that’s_ what’s making Dean balk.

Anger flares low in his gut at his brother’s presumption and he welcomes it with open arms. He’s used to anger. It’s familiar and comfortable and soothing and it grounds him enough that he straightens and opens his eyes again.

“Yeah, well, so do I,” he bites out. “And I don’t want this.”

Sammy doesn’t say anything, but the disbelieving look he gives Dean is answer enough.

“It isn’t happening,” Dean adds into the silence, borrowing Dad’s ‘I'm not taking any more of your shit’ voice.

It works on Sammy about as well as the original always does, which is to say that it puts his hackles up and firms his jaw and prompts him to demand, “Tell me why. Give me one good reason.”

“I’ll give you three,” Dean answers without missing a beat, and then ticks them off on the fingers of the hand not clutching the towel. “I’m not gay, I’m not a fucking pedophile—and yeah, Sammy, you’re still a fucking _kid_ —and, oh right, you’re also my _brother_. Plus, Dad would kill me.”

“That’s four reasons,” Sammy says sullenly.

“Must be your lucky day then, cause that's three more than you asked for. Now get the fuck out so I can get dressed already.”

Sammy stares at him long enough that Dean’s skin is crawling from all of that concentrated _focus_ and then he seems to deflate and turns around. For some reason, the dejected slump of his brother’s shoulders makes Dean feel even worse than he already did.

“It’s not—” he says without meaning to.

Sammy pauses in the doorway but doesn’t turn around.

Clearing his throat, Dean fumbles, “Give it a few weeks, man, okay? This’ll—your hormones are taking you for a ride right now, but it’ll get better. And, you know, you’re a Winchester, so sooner or later the chicks are gonna start noticing.”

“Sometimes you’re so fucking stupid, Dean,” Sammy chokes out. It sounds like he might be crying. His left hand is white-knuckled on the doorframe.

Something’s wrong with Dean’s throat. It’s gone all tight and closed and it feels like he swallowed a goddamned ostrich egg. He tries to get something out past the blockage—though fucked if he knows what he wants to say—and can’t manage anything but a strangled noise that Sammy probably didn’t even hear.

Sammy’s hand drops from the doorframe. “You didn’t stop,” he says. “If you were really as disgusted by this as you’re pretending to be, then you would’ve stopped.”

That’s not true, though. Dean had plenty of good reasons not to bolt for cover as soon as Sam walked in on him. He just … can’t think of one right now, is all.

Sammy hesitates for a moment longer and when Dean still doesn’t respond he vanishes down the hallway. A few seconds later, Dean hears the front door open and then bang shut again. The sound of Sammy storming out to vent his frustration on some unsuspecting rocks, or maybe just to curl up somewhere out of sight and cry for a while.

 _He’ll get over it,_ he thinks, and the words seem distant even from his own mind. He’s pretty sure that he’s in some kind of shock: recognizes the symptoms from the time he got tossed over a small cliff by a ghost and broke his leg in three places on the way down. Carefully and slowly, he makes his way back to the bed and sits down. Leans forward on his knees and buries his face in shaking hands.

 _It was a mistake,_ he tells himself. _Just a dumb mistake. It doesn’t mean anything._

But the image of Sammy’s back burns against Dean’s self-imposed darkness, and his brother’s parting words echo in his ears pitilessly.

Why _didn’t_ he stop?

Oh fuck, _why didn’t he?_


End file.
